


be everything that you need

by abovetheruins



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Summer Tour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7833295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Archie is sick, Cook is protective, and some truths come to light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	be everything that you need

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt on the cookleta kink meme:
> 
> "Hurt/comfort, with David being physically hurt in whatever way (maybe he’s sick? maybe he’s wounded?) and trying to hide it (maybe he doesn’t like being seen as weak?) but Cook, who's always watching out for him, sees him anyway, and vows to take care of him. Bonus if they have no idea of each other’s feelings, and Cook is trying desperately to fight his, but failing, because he also can’t bear the thought of someone else taking care of Archie like this. "
> 
> Title from Savage Garden's Truly Madly Deeply.

The bus is quiet, save the familiar rumble of the wheels over asphalt. Michael’s in the back, talking softly into his phone, Chikezie and Jason lounging in their bunks while they wait for the bus to arrive at the hotel. Cook’s on the couch, his pen scratching idly at a book of crosswords in his lap, though he’s not really paying attention to it so much as the boy on the other end of the sofa.  
  
Archie’s got his Ipod cradled in his lap, ear buds firmly affixed to his ears. Occasionally his lips will move, or Cook will hear him humming softly along to the music. His eyes are heavy-lidded, soft bruises underneath that make Cook think he hasn’t been getting enough sleep lately. Granted, they’ve all been pushed to the brink of exhaustion over the past few weeks. The past few _months_ , really. The _American Idol_ Summer Tour has been a whirlwind of dates and venues and hotels, the weeks passing in a blur of late nights and performances and crowds of screaming fans. It’s been amazing, but exhaustion clings to them all like a second skin, and it’s been difficult for all of them to acclimate to the grueling schedule.  
  
Weeks have passed since their first show, and yet Cook still isn’t used to the disquieting sensation of his bunk rocking beneath him as the bus rolls onwards toward their next destination. Hotel nights are a godsend, and Cook’s looking forward to the next three nights and the promise of a stationary mattress underneath him.  
  
It’ll be good for Archie, too, he hopes. He’s noticed how pale the boy has become over the last few days. The previous night, while they had been at the barricades after their latest show, Archie had been tense and tight-lipped as they’d made their way through the press of fans clamoring for autographs. He’d hidden it well behind a wide, pasted on smile whenever anybody came too close, but Cook had caught his hands shaking after they’d all piled onto the bus, the way his smile trembled at the edges whenever they said goodnight. Cook doubts anyone else even noticed, and doesn’t that say something about _him_ , that he _did_?  
  
 _Stop thinking about it, Dave_ , he tells himself, jerking his gaze away from Archie and back to his crossword. It’s a moot point by now; after all, it’s not like he’s ever been able to follow his own advice when it comes to his runner-up. He wouldn’t be nursing a fucking _crush_ on the boy if that were the case.  
  
They arrive at the hotel within about half an hour, piling off the bus with their bags and meeting up with the girls at the entrance to the lobby. Everyone looks a little worse for wear, a few of them immediately heading towards their room with murmurs of goodnight. Cook’s content to head straight to the elevator, waving off Mike’s offer of a drink in the hotel bar, and is pleasantly surprised to find himself sharing the car with Archie, who shoots him a tremulous smile as he presses the button for their floor.  
  
“Everything okay, Arch?” Cook can’t help but ask. The harsh fluorescent lights in the elevator throw the shadows under Archie’s eyes into sharp relief, as well as the paleness of his skin. He looks drained beyond the scope of simple exhaustion, and Cook’s worry ratchets up a few dozen notches when Archie tells him, “I’m okay, Cook,” his voice a little rough and scratchy.  
  
Cook wants to ask if he’s sure, but Archie’s angled his body toward the door, away from Cook, and Cook can tell he doesn’t want to talk.  
  
He watches Archie’s back as the elevator arrives at their floor, the line of his spine rigid as he ducks out of the car and over to his door, barely mumbling a goodnight to Cook before he disappears into his room. Cook stands at a loss in front of his own door, wavering between his desire to follow after Archie and make sure he’s alright and his reason telling him to let it go. Archie doesn’t need to be coddled or looked after. He’s not some goddamn _kid_. This urge Cook has to take care of him, he needs to get the fuck over it.  
  
Doesn’t matter how often he tries to drill that into his head, though. The kernel of worry sits in his chest regardless, heavy as lead as he readies himself for bed that night. It takes a long time before he’s finally able to sleep.  
  


//

  
He’s one of the first in the lobby the next morning, fumbling through the breakfast buffet in a haze brought about by a restless night of very little sleep.  
  
“Rough night?” Michael asks him as Cook settles in beside him.  
  
“Something like that,” Cook replies, biting into a bagel to save him from having to expound any further.  
  
More of the other Idols trickle into the dining area as the morning goes on, but by the time nine-thirty has come and gone and the detritus from breakfast has been cleared away, there’s still no sign of Archie.  
  
“Weird that the kid hasn’t come down yet,” Mike comments, sipping innocently at his coffee when Cook stares at him. “He never misses breakfast.”  
  
Cook doesn’t say anything, just turns back to the remains of his meal with a frown, remembering the hollows under Archie’s eyes and the slump of his shoulders the night before.  
  
By ten o’clock the others are beginning to question Archie’s absence, too, and when one of them suggests going to get him, thinking maybe he’s slept through his alarm or something, Mike pipes up helpfully, “Cook will go!” and pushes Cook toward the elevator with a knowing smirk.  
  
Which is how Cook finds himself standing outside of room 407, feeling inexplicably like the teenager he’s been sent to retrieve, nervous for reasons he refuses to name.  
  
 _Grow some fucking balls_ , he tells himself, rapping his knuckles on the door. “Archie? You in there?”  
  
He hears shuffling in the room, followed by a raspy croak that he barely recognizes as Archie’s voice. “Cook? Um, hold on. I’m almost ready.”  
  
It’s a few moments before the door opens, and Cook bites out an expletive as soon as Archie steps out into the hallway.  
  
“Shit, Archie, what _happened_?”  
  
Archie seems to fold in on himself, wilting under Cook’s scrutiny. “Nothing?” he mumbles, shifting his backpack higher up onto his shoulder. “I’m fine, Cook. C’mon, we’ll be late for rehearsal…”  
  
“Wait a sec, Arch. Hold on.” Cook reaches out without thinking, pressing his palm to Archie’s chest. The softness of the boy’s shirt contrasts with the warmth of his skin underneath, and Cook tamps down the sudden urge that overtakes him to press Archie back into the darkness of his bedroom, to hell with rehearsal and the others waiting for them in the lobby.  
  
“Cook?” The soft rasp of Archie’s voice is enough to douse the flames of that particular fantasy. It’s too hoarse to be normal, a painful croak that has Cook wincing in sympathy.  
  
“You don’t sound so good, Archie.” Doesn’t look so great, either, if the pallor of his skin is anything to go by, pale and wan in the dim light of the hallway. “Are you sure you feel okay?”  
  
Archie carefully avoids Cook’s gaze, shrugging off his hand with a half-hearted smile that is a bare shadow of its usual brilliance. “I’m fine, Cook. It’s just a – a cold or something. C’mon, I don’t want to be late – “  
  
“Archie, you can’t sing like this, man.” Archie deflates at his words, trying to move around Cook. He looks embarrassed and uncomfortable, though Cook’s not entirely sure why. Archie had seen _him_ at his lowest just a few weeks before, when Cook had barely made it through the show without feeling like he was about to collapse. Archie had been there for him the entire time, making sure he made it to the bus and to his bunk afterward, rather than try and rally through the meet and greet at the barricades. “You can skip rehearsals, Archie. You know all the moves, anyway. Besides, your health is more important.”  
  
Archie shakes his head, protests ready on his tongue. “But, Cook – “  
  
“Archie, please.” Cook’s plea seems to do the trick; Archie’s mouth closes with an audible click, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip as Cook touches his shoulder, saying, “Rest for a while, okay? For me?”  
  
Archie hesitates at that; Cook wonders if he’s suddenly said too much, unintentionally let something slip with that little comment, but all Archie does is mumble a soft, “Okay, Cook. I’ll stay,” and shuffle back into his bedroom with such a downcast expression on his face that Cook’s tempted to follow him, unsure why one missed rehearsal would weigh so heavily on the boy’s mind.  
  


//

  
He might as well have missed rehearsal himself; he’d barely been able to pay attention to the stage manager’s directions or the other Idols milling about him, unless he crashed into one of them whenever he flubbed his steps or missed one of his cues. Only Michael had seemed content to ignore his mistakes, and when the stage manager had finally suggested that Cook head back early and practice on his own, looking like he was ready to personally boot Cook out of the venue, the Australian had waved him off with a chipper, “Good luck, Cook!” that Cook suspects had very little to do with his choreography.  
  
He stops at the front desk before heading up to his and Archie’s floor, and by the time he’s made a pit stop by his room, the nervous energy he’s become familiar with whenever he’s around Archie has returned. He ignores it as best he can, knocking on the door with one hand and holding his offering in the other, calling, “Archie? You awake?”  
  
Archie answers the door in his pajamas, a plain t-shirt and sleep pants that look a little loose on him. His dark hair is wild and sleep-mussed, and the sight of his bare feet against the carpet does something inexplicable to Cook’s heart.  
  
“Knew those shitty coffee makers in the rooms were good for something,” he says by way of greeting, holding out a steaming mug to Archie and hoping his runner-up doesn’t notice the catch in his breath. “It’s tea. With honey. Supposed to help your throat.”  
  
Something shifts in Archie’s gaze. Though he takes the mug with a soft, sincere, “Thank you, Cook,” there’s something… off, about his reaction, something resigned in the tilt of his smile as he moves away from the door, saying, “Um, if you want to – ?”  
  
Cook slips into the room, a little confused by the shade of sadness in Archie’s face as the boy closes the door. He settles on the chair by the bed as Archie sips at his tea, glancing surreptitiously at his runner-up. Archie still looks tired, though the rest he’d gotten seems to have infused a healthier pallor to his skin.  
  
“How are you feeling, Archie?” It seems to be the wrong thing to ask. Archie’s entire face closes off at the question, his gaze shuttering as he sits on the edge of the bed, and immediately alarm bells ring in Cook’s head. “Arch? What’s wrong?”  
  
“I’m not – “ Archie cuts himself off, his fingers going tight around the mug cradled in his lap. He doesn’t say anything more, just stares at the swirl of honeyed tea in his cup and avoids Cook’s gaze.  
  
Anxiety spikes in Cook’s blood. “Arch… ?” he asks, leaning forward to touch his palm to Archie’s knee. Archie jerks away, and Cook pulls his hand back as if burned, unreasonably hurt by the gesture. “Archie, what – ?”  
  
“I’m not your brother.” Archie’s voice is soft, colored with the throaty rasp of whatever sickness has him in its clutches. “I’m _not_ , Cook, and you don’t have to keep doing this. Looking after me all the time.”  
  
“Archie… “ Cook’s stomach curdles at the realization that Archie has noticed exactly how attentive he’s been lately. Has noticed and has taken it completely _the wrong way_ , because while Cook wouldn’t hesitate to call Archie _family_ , what he feels for his runner-up is anything but _brotherly_. “I know that. I’ve never thought that you were.”  
  
Archie finally looks at him then, his brows furrowed and something stormy – almost angry – in his gaze. “But that’s what you tell people, all the time! And you keep – you keep doing this, looking after me, trying to take care of me, and I’m not. I’m not yours to take care _of_. That’s not your job – “ Archie cuts off with a ragged cough, and Cook is out of the chair and over by the bed in seconds. Archie tries to shrug him off, rasping, “See? Cook, you have to stop – “ but Cook ignores him.  
  
“Archie, _listen_ to me. I don’t – I don’t think of you like that. I never have.”  
  
It’s clear by the expression on Archie’s face that he doesn’t believe him. “Then why do you _say_ it?”  
  
“Because – “ Cook slumps down onto the mattress, running his fingers through his hair in a familiar gesture of frustration. Shit, it’s come down to this, hasn’t it? “Because it’s _easier_ to pretend that I see you as a little brother rather than… anything else.”  
  
Archie’s brows furrow. “What do you mean? What else is there?”  
  
“Archie… “ Cook leans forward, staring resolutely at the floor as he struggles to articulate exactly what he wants to say, _needs_ to say. It’s the coward’s way out, not looking Archie in the eye, but at the moment Cook doubts he has the courage for anything more. “I don’t look after you because I see you as a brother. I do it because I _like_ you.”  
  
Archie’s silence tells him nothing, and a quick peek at the boy’s face reveals little but more confusion. Cook sighs. _Fuck it_ , he thinks.  
  
“Archie, I _want_ to take care of you. I _like_ taking care of you. Not like a brother, not because I think you need it, but because I like how it feels. How you make me feel.” He closes his eyes in frustration, letting out his breath in a rush. “Shit. I’m not making any sense.”  
  
He hears a soft thump, followed by the warmth of Archie settling against his side, and the shock of having the boy so close makes him forget about wanting to hide. He lifts his head, turning to stare at his runner-up, whose shifted close enough that their sides are almost touching, his face blank of any expression save a soft, hopeful curiosity.  
  
“How… how do I make you feel?” he asks, his gaze catching Cook’s for a moment before flitting away, like he’s too nervous to hold their eye contact for very long.  
  
Cook thinks about lying, deflecting, but he knows there’s no point in trying to pretend any longer. “You make me… want things, from you, that I probably shouldn’t. To want to be more than just a brother-figure, or a friend. I want to be _with_ you, Archie.”  
  
The silence following his words is _deafening_.  
  
Until –  
  
“I didn’t want you to see me like this.” Archie’s fingers curl into the bedsheets, a nervous gesture that Cook has seen from him a thousand times over since the beginning of _Idol_.  
  
“I knew you would try and look after me, like you always do, and I didn’t want that. Not because I don’t appreciate it, it’s just – I hated feeling like you were doing it because you felt like I _needed_ it. Needed someone to take care of me.” He hesitates, and Cook is stunned to see a soft flush of red stealing over the boy’s face. “I didn’t want you to think… less, of me. Or to treat me like a kid, or a little brother.”  
  
Realization dawns on Cook, and with it, a tiny, dangerous spark of hope. “Is that why you tried to hide it?”  
  
Archie nods. “Yeah,” he breathes, looking a little embarrassed by the admission. He seems to steel himself, glancing at Cook from beneath his lashes. “I _like_ when you take care of me, Cook. I just – I wanted you to be doing it because… because you wanted _me_ , too.”  
  
The spark of hope sitting in Cook’s chest _ignites_ at those words. “Archie… “ he rasps, “what are you saying?”  
  
Archie finally meets his gaze, and just like that, just like _always_ , Cook is _lost_. “I want to be with you, too, Cook. If you’re sure that I’m what you want… ?”  
  
There’s so much that Cook could say in response to that. Assurances fumble on his tongue, desperation to show Archie the surety of his desire prickling beneath his skin. In the end, he says nothing at all, choosing instead to rely on action to prove to Archie just how sure he is of this, how much he wants it, wants _him_.  
  
He’s never felt anything like this, the sensation of his palms curving around Archie’s smooth cheeks, cupping the line of his jaw and pulling him _in_. Archie’s mouth falls open beneath his, so eager and responsive already, _wanting_ , and Cook touches their lips together with a sigh of relief, of release, all of the anxiety and fear of the past few days draining away in the wake of Archie’s gently grasping hands curling into his shirt, Archie’s bright, expressive eyes falling closed as Cook kisses him, Archie’s soft, pleased hum as Cook’s thumbs brush over the swells of his cheeks.  
  
Months of pent up longing and desire leave his hands trembling as Cook tilts Archie’s head just so, deepening the kiss with a soft groan, trying to be gentle, to take care of Archie in any way he can, even now, _especially_ now.  
  
Archie’s lips curl into a smile against Cook’s mouth, a soft huff of laughter escaping as he pulls away, murmuring, “I want to take care of you, too, Cook, okay?” and reaching up to cup the back of Cook’s neck so that he can pull him back in. His kiss is just like his personality, gentle and sweet and loving, and Cook falls into it with a sigh that means _yes_ , and _please_ , and _always_.  
  
There’s no need for words anymore, after that.


End file.
